


The Storyteller

by stealing_your_kittens



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 03:33:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7151393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stealing_your_kittens/pseuds/stealing_your_kittens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Storytellers, you see, have a power that none other possesses. Fate sends them to the deserving to write them a happy ending, and It had looked upon the world and recognized that Lady Belle of Avonlea was deserving, but unlikely to achieve happiness without some help. Her sole remaining joy lay in her books, and Fate foresaw a future wherein the brilliant light inside the fair lady would grow ever dimmer as she resigned herself to a life where love and happiness existed only in stories. </p><p>(Definite AU from ages ago, written at the beginning of the whole Isaac is The Author thing)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Storyteller

Lady Belle of Avonlea was most renowned for her beauty. It was an accepted fact, and one she didn't much complain about because she was only human and still prone to her vanities. If she had to make a fuss about anything, however, it would be that no one had renowned her for her brain, as well. When she was younger, her late mother had filled her head with tales from the finest Storytellers in the world; Her Handsome Hero being the first and a nostalgic favorite, the princess in the story rescued by a brave and cunning knight as beautiful as he was clever. As she grew, Lady Belle discovered there were many such tales and many such men existed in real life, as well. Men went on quests, men came to her home seeking her hand and hoped to impress her with a fine face and tales of their bravery. Some thought to render her speechless with their wit, though they never elevated it above a cunning turn of phrase in celebration of her beauty. One mustn't be _too_ clever with ladies, after all.

 

And so, ten years passed and Lady Belle grew from a rose newly-budded into full blossom, and then, to her father's dismay, she passed her twentieth and then some and whispers began that the rose would wilt without ever being plucked. Too thorny, apparently. She attended every ball required of her, smiled and dutifully batted her eyelashes at the appropriate gentlemen, only to offend them horribly when she couldn't keep her differing opinions to herself and even proceeded to argue her point quite heatedly until the hapless suitor stormed away. Advancing age didn't demur her, only made her more strident. At last, Lord Maurice took matters into his own hands and arranged a match for her, giving her no further say in the matter. Sir Gaston needed to advance in rank as badly as Belle needed a husband, it was unlikely he'd walk away.

 

It was at this point, Fate sent her a Storyteller. Storytellers, you see, have a power that none other possesses. Fate sends them to the deserving to write them a happy ending, and It had looked upon the world and recognized that Lady Belle of Avonlea was deserving, but unlikely to achieve happiness without some help. Her sole remaining joy lay in her books, and Fate foresaw a future wherein the brilliant light inside the fair lady would grow ever dimmer as she resigned herself to a life where love and happiness existed only in stories.

 

The Storyteller chanced upon her for the first time after a bath, as she sat on her balcony clad only in chemise and robe, running a comb through her still wet hair which shone amber in the sunlight. (Fate laughed to Itself.) That the Lady Belle was startled to find a strange man suddenly in her bedroom went without saying, as he came from seemingly nowhere. An older gentleman, perhaps a member of the court given he was richly dressed in silks and leathers.

 

“Sir, explain yourself at once or I shall call the guards!” After all, she was startled but not so foolish that she didn't recognize the whiff of magic in the air.

 

“I am your Storyteller, Fair Lady,” the strange man replied with an extravagant bow. “Rumplestiltskin by name, sent by Fate, Itself, to bring you happiness. Now,” he went on, reaching into the air and pulling out a book and quill, endlessly supplied with ink. He flipped through the book until reaching a blank page in the middle, “a beautiful lady, a handsome betrothed, this shouldn't be too difficult. What kind of quest would you like him to undertake?”

 

Belle, who had been initially pleased, found herself once more deflated. “Is that all I may have? You'll write him a grand adventure and I'll suddenly find myself content to sit here and embroider a handkerchief, perhaps pricking my finger and spilling my blood onto it so that he'll be protected by my constant devotion? And then he'll fetch me the head of a dragon and return to claim me?”

 

“Is that what you'd like?” Rumplestiltskin held the pen poised to write. “A dragon can ravage the village as soon as you give the word. Unless you'd prefer ogres, an army of them and a glorious battle.” Ogre wars were usually a favorite, needing cleverness and strategy as well as brute strength.

 

“Goodness, no,” Belle exclaimed in alarm. “Don't go destroying any villages on my account. Can't I have my own adventure?”

 

“Unusual,” he mused, tilting his head to study her, “but not without precedent.” It wasn't often he received any special requests, most ordinary people content to see proof of unyielding passion and leave it at that. Though there were the rare young ladies that wanted the chance to prove their own worth, like that Mulan. A better warrior her kingdom had never seen and she'd won the heart of a foreign princess as an unexpected bonus. A little push to arrange circumstances favorably, and Lady Belle, too, could have an adventure. “What would you like?”

 

“May I have a bit of time to think?”

 

“Of course. I'm at your disposal until you find your happy ending, milady.” And tucking the book and pen into his vest, he vanished with another bow.

 

All through the night, Belle found it difficult to sleep as her mind turned over the possibilities. An adventure of her very own! What should she ask for? First, of course, she wanted the chance to be free of her engagement and prove her intelligence into the bargain. These things always had the adventurer asking for something simple, yet life-changing in its consequence, and so it was the next morning she went to her father and told him that if Sir Gaston could beat her in a chess match she'd marry him immediately, but if not he must break the engagement at once.

 

Lord Maurice was furious at this perceived ingratitude, after all the trouble he took to secure the match for her, but an unseen hand wrote in an unseen book and it was so. Unfortunately, the best characters take on a life of their own, no matter the intent of the author, and though Belle won her freedom in the metaphorical sense, she lost it in the literal, finding herself confined to her chambers indefinitely. Maurice's one concession to her wishes, now, was too send out messengers saying that whoever could best the Lady Belle at chess would be her husband. And because he was growing desperate and wished to spite her, even the lowest peasant wasn't exempt. Belle was less offended by the conditions than at once more finding herself offered up as a prize.

 

“Is this my grand adventure,” she demanded angrily of the air, certain it was listening.

 

“Not quite,” answered Rumplestiltskin from where he sat perilously balanced on the back of her desk chair, legs crossed in a meditative pose and the book resting on them. “Your tale has begun in earnest, now, and you must prove yourself in this battle of wits. Wait for someone to slip up. Or make them.”

 

And for months, she bested suitor after suitor, but always found herself once more confined. Freedom, then, could only be won by losing.

 

“Not necessarily,” Rumple, as she'd begun calling him, said one day, the two of them sprawled lazily on the rug before her fireplace. He visited her often, recording the story as it played out, slipping in little details here and there to assist in her ultimate goal. Belle had decreed that part of such helpfulness should be to sharpen her wits, and between the two of them the ratio of wins to losses was evenly split. No mere mortal could hope to best the lady at chess when she regularly played against a being as old as time. “You don't need a loss, so much as a sacrifice and some luck.”

 

“A sacrifice,” she mused to herself later that night when he'd gone. Yes, a sacrifice and some luck. He had a point, there. Losing at a chess match to one of them could only ensure that her adventure ended before it began. The sacrifice came to her, and she shared her plan with Rumple the next day, trusting him to supply the luck so that she need only give up a little dignity rather than her virtue.

 

In the rotation of guards outside her door, there was one posted at night, Sir Keith of Nottingham, she particularly disliked. Had he been any good at chess, no doubt he'd have offered to play against her. But as he was not, he contented himself with leering when he thought no one was looking and making innuendos when he could get away with them. Thus far, status had saved her from his grasping hands, and the fact that there were always more guards in screaming distance. If she promised herself to him, however, the man might just be made to slip up.

 

That night at dinner, she sent him many promising looks with her eyes, waiting for him to corner her somewhere private. Keith did not disappoint and seized the first opportunity to get her alone in the library where it was well known she wasn't to be disturbed in the one hour her father currently allowed. He leered, she let him paw within reason and stayed his wandering hands with forced giggles. He proved willing enough to listen to her tale of woe, to believe the lie that she'd wanted him all along and tried to arrange things for them, only to be thwarted by her father. If he would only help her to flee, she would give herself to him at the first inn they found outside Avonlea.

 

The very next night, she found herself alone with him as Keith slipped a sleeping draught to his fellow guard. He had enough focus to get them to the stables unseen, a man with his prize in sight can be patient, after all, but he claimed a kiss as a good faith token before she mounted Phillipe. It proved to be all he would ever claim, as the stallion kicked him squarely in the face once she was settled on and took off at a gallop into the night. Morning found her miles away and well-hidden in the men's clothing Keith had supplied for her, breasts bound and hair tucked away in a cap.

 

“Well,” Rumple inquired when she had refreshed herself with a short nap. “Have you given any thought to what you'll do now you're free and drifting along without a plot? Slay dragons, perhaps?”

 

“Dragons have never done me any harm,” Belle replied, a bit put off by his insistence that adventurers had to cause some sort of death. “Besides, I _like_ drifting. I'm having fun.”

 

“As you wish.” And he was gone again.

 

Life in a castle had not prepared her for life on the road, and the little money she'd been able to carry soon ran out, taking with it the possibility of food and shelter. In one town, she sold her hair to a barber who eyed her suspiciously and asked too many questions about her intended destination, which she answered with fake naivety and then slipped away in the night in the opposite direction. The loss of her hair pricked at her vanity a little, and tears stung her eyes the first time she got a good look at her reflection, but Rumple tugged at one of the curls which now sprung up in every direction and wrinkled his nose comically.

 

“Well, you certainly make a very pretty boy,” he said, making her giggle.

 

Hair doesn't tend to fetch very much money, and that was soon spent. After that, she learned quickly how to work for her supper and sleep in stables. Ladies learn very little in the way of marketable skills. She could read and write and sew a fine seam or stitch a pretty picture, but the latter two would certainly have given her away. Fearing, too, that her handwriting might be recognized -Rumple laughed and called her paranoid, but applauded her caution- she instead washed dishes and scrubbed floors and strengthened her arms chopping firewood.

 

Rough-living soon erased the legendary beauty she'd been gifted with, but a new one took its place as porcelain pale skin turned sun-brown and freckled, soft hands taken over with callouses from hard work. For some time she easily kept up her disguise of a boy in the first bloom of youth, enforcing it by prompting innkeepers' wives to giggle at her when she asked for a razor in the mornings. After a while, the sun brought signs of age early to her face, forming little crinkles in the corners of her eyes when she smiled, and she gave up on hiding her true sex; even allowing her hair to grow as far as her shoulders. No one ever took the rough-skinned traveler for any sort of fine lady.

 

On the road, it was easier to find men who appreciated her for more than her looks and status, and she spent many pleasant evenings drinking and bantering with those who caught her eye, exchanging stories of lands they had seen. Rumple gave her many beautiful nights on which to do so, sitting invisible at her side and encouraging her in flat tones to go for a walk with those who seemed the most likely to be gentlemen. Perhaps she might find romance and an ending to her tale. He was always short-tempered the next day, and it didn't take Belle long to put the pattern together, smiling to herself as pieces fell into place. But he seemed oblivious when she directed her coy glances at him.

 

“How long have we been traveling,” she asked him one day.

 

“Ten years, give or take. Homesick?”

 

For, indeed, the amount of time had made her sigh wistfully. “No. Well, yes, but...ten years and I haven't had an adventure. I haven't done anything that really matters. ”

 

“Ah, but you have! See here,” and he flipped through the pages of her book, showing her things previously unseen. The beggar she hadn't known she'd saved from freezing to death one night when she gave him the last of her money. The woman mourning the end of a love affair who'd spent the night drinking and crying on her shoulder, going on her way the next morning hungover but happier for having been simply listened to. The little boy standing in awe of the beautiful woman who'd climbed a tree to rescue his cat, who now no longer thought girls couldn't climb as well as boys. There was another life forever changed, but the story wasn't written in the book and never could be. “And you're a legend, back in Avonlea, though you may not like the reason behind it.”

 

“Show me.”

 

So, he turned to the pages about Lord Maurice, who had offered a reward years ago for the safe return of his daughter: her hand in marriage. Belle huffed in annoyance at that, but she liked the romance of being the Long Lost Lady of Avonlea even if it meant she couldn't ever go home again.

 

“Of course you can,” Rumple answered the melancholy utterance. “You just have to find a husband, first. He can't marry you off if you're already married, and he'd have to give you to the fellow, anyway, if he enters town with you in tow.

 

Finding a husband was easier said than done. There were handsome men and there were clever men and there were men both handsome and clever, but none of them suited her so well as the man who pretended not to notice when her eyes landed on him. He still gave her beautiful nights and pleasant days, but the rose had taken to being prickly again and her thorns drove off any potential romances.

 

“Now you're just being stubborn,” he admonished her one evening over dinner, tucked away in the corner of a tavern.

 

She found those words terribly ironic coming from him, but she said nothing of that. Instead, the Long-Lost Lady Belle that was, resolved to be very bold and take Fate into her own hands. “Give me a beautiful night, then,” she retorted as if conceding. “The most beautiful you've ever written, and I'll let myself be wooed.”

 

He gave her his best effort. Above the clearing where they set up camp, the sky was blue velvet twinkling with diamonds, with clouds like waves of milk and a moon bright enough to read by. Belle took that as a personal challenge and held the book up close to squint at their old stories.

 

“You'll ruin your eyes,” Rumple chided her as he took it back. “Right, then,” he went on, firmly ignoring the cracking of his heart and holding the pen poised aloft, ready to begin. Ending hung inevitable in the air. “You have your beautiful night. You are, I assume, still in the mood for romance?”

 

Belle nodded, biting her lip in the way she knew distracted him.

 

“Good. Good thing. All we need now, is a lost traveler. Do you have a preference?”

 

“I do.” She reclined back on her hands, gazing up at the stars. “Someone clever, of course, and it wouldn't hurt if he were beautiful.”

 

“Of course,” he said bitterly. Perhaps she already had a specific person in mind, so he waited for a name before he began writing.

 

“Someone who can make me laugh and,” Belle continued nonchalantly, “someone who can beat me at chess.”

 

“Oh, are we back to that? How unoriginal. You disappoint me, dearie.”

 

“We're back to that,” she confirmed, turning to him with a little smile. “Rumplestiltskin, take me home.”

 

The pen dropped from fingers suddenly too numb to hold it. “I can't,” he answered regretfully. “I'm a Storyteller, our kind can wander in to other people's stories, but never have any of our own. Fate would never allow me to write that.”

 

“No one decides _my_ fate but me,” she declared, picking up the pen and taking the book from him. She scribbled busily, diligently recording the last few minutes.

 

 _The Lady Belle, as clever as she was beautiful, took the pen from the Storyteller and proceeded to write the story for him, so that he might be simply Rumplestiltskin,_ she wrote, reciting as she went. _Then the beautiful, clever lady..._

 

“Laying it on a bit thick, aren't we?”

 

_Then the beautiful, clever lady turned to him and asked, “Rumplestiltskin, will you be my husband?”_

 

_And the Storyteller answered_

 

She paused and held the pen in readiness, not wanting to control his fate while deciding her own.

 

“Yes.”

 

They wrote the last line together, his hand covering her own.

 

_They lived happily ever after._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
